


Amaurëa

by Aerlind



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 17:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4068169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlind/pseuds/Aerlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The relationship between Glorfindel and Echtelion before the Fall of Gondolin...and the fall of Gondolin. </p><p>Done for secrettolkienartexchange for tumblr user forgetful-asexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amaurëa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The happy side.

_Anar calëa langë laurë, irë félalwë valin…_

 

Dark hair framed the lordly face of the Gondolin lord. Whether ’ _lordly_ ’ equaled to handsome or any other positive adjective, that was for the watcher to decide. His skin was of healthy colour: based on it, he had spent many days under the burning sun. His eyes were closed at the moment, yet an observant watcher might see an occasional blue twinkle as the lord looked at his flute and re-organized the position of his fingers. They were not as smooth as one would expect of a musician, for they were used to wield much more dangerous instruments, a sword and a shield. Yes, the lord had seen his share of battles, and though he wove them into beautiful songs, they had left his hands rough, his body scarred and his mind wandering. This all did not however erase his good humour, his excellent advises nor his beautiful singing. Often it was that he could be found singing a song of valour, a song of victory -or just a humorous dirty little tavern song. Whatever it was that he was hymning, it had a tendency to sound good.

 

”Echtelion,” a radiant voice called, and the lord rose his head, for he was Echtelion, Lord of Fountains. The flute was put away and smiles exchanged between the two.

”Glorfindel, what a pleasure to see you today.”

”The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

They both smiled a bit wider: the other lord, called Glorfindel, even let out a small snicker. His smile was more of a smirk, bright and fitting to his face. The small wrinkles near his eyes, laugh lines, had always charmed many. They made his youthful face seem more mature and yet less serious. The ridiculously long, blonde hair was always tied up less or more elegantly and he had a nice, strong jaw and smooth cheeks, often called ”cute” by his friend. It was a playful teasing that had been going on between the two for some time now. Echtelion called Glorfindel’s cheeks ‘cute’ and Glorfindel called Echtelion’s eyes 'sweet’.No harm in a bit of  _joking_ , right?

”It is  _such_  a surprise to see you here,” Echtelion commented teasingly, tilting his head. He gathered his dark hair to one shoulder to let the wind touch his neck better, for it was a warm day and his clothes were anything but thin.

”A surprise!” Glorfindel exclaimed, letting out a rich laugh. ”Strange that it is as if I’d remember meeting you here every day!”

Echtelion’s eyes had a bit of playful twinkle as he rose to stand. It was true that they met here almost every day. They had no set time, for they both were lords of their own Houses -Echtelion of the House of the Fountain and Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower- and therefore busy enough. Instead when they felt like they wanted to meet the other, they came here and sat down to wait. Echtelion always played his flute to get Glorfindel to come to the fountain area, which had been made into a joke by the other lords and ladies. They said that Echtelion’s playing was so beautiful that it enchanted the Lord of the Golden Flower and bade him to come to his friend. It was nothing new that Glorfindel would disappear in middle of a discussion, only to be later found chatting happily with Echtelion. However, when Glorfindel sat to wait for Echtelion, he usually did nothing to attract attention, other than put his feet to the fountain or draw figures to the surface of the water. It seemed to be an effective way to get the other Elf to come to the place, yet no one else had succeeded in summoning Echtelion in that way. Even if they had tried.

 

The two lords began to walk along the road, chatting of the events of the present, past and the future. The two always seemed to have new or old stories to share, a recent gossip to laugh about or, more rarely, something serious to talk with each other. Presently Echtelion was recounting how Rog, their good friend and the Lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, drank Glorfindel under the table, evidently making fun of his friend.

”You were so drunk, you could not even talk without slurring.”

”I was not!”

”Do you even remember anything about that night?”

”Yes!”

”Really?” Echtelion laughed, and that laugh was rich with well-intended humour and teasing. Glorfindel tried to seem insulted, yet the tugging of the corners of his mouth betrayed that pretense.

”I had to drag you back to your house,” Echtelion reminded his friend gently. ”You would not come until I sang to you.”

Glorfindel let out a short snort.

”Well, today I have a chance to best myself. I swear I can drink him under table this time!” he promised boldly, determination shining in his eyes. His friend only shook his head, greatly amused by the claim.

”I will witness that later this night then,” Echtelion told, his smile wide. ”I’ll not try my luck against you two, however. I will have to drag you home again.”

”I’m glad I can trust you to have my back,” Glorfindel laughed gently, and for a brief moment their hands brushed. Just lightly, gently, almost like as an accident, and a warm look passed between the friends. They continued to talk, wandering to other topics, but the two continued to exchange small glances, and their smiles were perhaps a bit more wider.

 

It was way past midnight when the drinking competition in the tavern started to end. Several elves lay passed out on the floor, several still awake and giggling to themselves. And some, well, were vomiting out the toxins they just had forced down their throats. Glorfindel’s golden hair was on a ridiculously fat bun, pulled away from his face so that it would not get dirtied. Rog was sitting next to him with a large grin, his dark hair loose, and he was offering his hand to Glorfindel, elbow strongly against the table. Glorfindel pressed his elbow to the table too, taking grasp of that offered hand, and the elves around were chanting their support for either of the lords. The two drunk Lords began to arm wrestle, both attempting to prove their strength, except that their wrestling was interrupted by several giggling fits and few pauses for more drinking. Their hands swayed from side to side, then left each other to grab a drink or hit strongly against the table as both laughed until they were gasping for air, and then clasped back together.

This all was examined by Echtelion, who sat next to Glorfindel, drinking considerably less than the others. He had had his fair share of drinking and merriment, of course, but he had made the decision not to get himself overly drunk, since Glorfindel was going to be completely drunk. Echtelion knew that if he’d be to leave his friend’s side, anything might happen. The blonde lord was such a capricious drunk. So for now Echtelion was watching the arm wrestling contest with highly amused grin, singing small cheerful tunes to encourage his friend. Eventually the arm wrestling contest was won by Rog, who unsurprisingly was the stronger one. It just took him a bit of concentration and a stop to his laughing fit to press Glorfindel’s hand to the table, followed by a small ”ouch!”. The two good friends grabbed their large mugs, banged them together and drank. And then they laughed again, Glorfindel praising Rog of his superior strength and Rog praising him for his superior beauty. Echtelion, having sat quietly aside, now patted his golden friend to back.

”It is time for us to go, 'fin,” he told with a smile, getting up.

”Noooooo,” Glorfindel whined with the biggest grin that had been seen on his face for while. He had some kind of argument against leaving, but Echtelion really could not understand it as his speech was so slurred.

”Time to go,” he only told, still smiling pleasantly - _as he tended to do when drunk_ \- and tugging at his sleeve.

”No, we haven’t even started on the special beverages!” Rog exclaimed, his speech still sound and clear. It was amazing how drunk he could be without showing any apparent speech problems. It was not like he could stand or walk or do anything physical very well anymore. Echtelion only shook his head and helped Glorfindel to his feet.

”I think 'fin won’t get out of his bed for a week if you make him still drink those. Have pity on him, Rog,” he told, smiling. It was answered with a roaring laughter and a wave of hand that signaled that it was okay for them to leave. Rog’s attention turned to their other friends - _or those who had not yet passed out_ \- and Echtelion escorted Glorfindel out of the tavern.

 

It was a dark night, but not cold or unpleasant. Both of the elves stopped after leaving the noise of the tavern, watching to the night sky.

”Elbereth,” Glorfindel whispered, his voice silent and serene. Echtelion said nothing, but looked at the gentle smile on his friend’s face. Glorfindel had always loved the stars and their maker, Lady of the Stars, Varda, Elbereth Gilthoniel. Elentári.

”Let the stars guide you home,” Echtelion whispered quietly, prompting the golden lord to move again. Yet Glorfindel’s eyes stayed on the stars as he took shaky, stumbling steps forward, following almost blindly his friend. Slowly but surely he was guided to his house. Echtelion was known in the house, and he knew the house - _he had visited it more than once and always it seemed so grand_ \- so he had no problems at all guiding Glorfindel to his room. There he laid his friend to the bed, unbuttoned his robe and folded it away. Glorfindel kept mumbling some nonsense, mostly about the stars and their prettiness.

”Yes, the stars are very pretty,” Echtelion told him, smiling and giving his head a kiss. ”But now–”

”You are very pretty,” Glorfindel mumbled happily, his strong hands clinging to Echtelion’s comfortable, warm robe. The recipient of this compliment only smiled, sighed and shook his head.

”Now it is time for you to sleep, my dear friend,” Echtelion finished his sentence. ”And it is time for me to return to my bed.”

”Nooooo,” Glorfindel whined once more, but this time his arms wrapped around the other and pulled him close. ”Nooo.”

Echtelion laughed, not resisting at all. He was tired,  and being drunk did not make him any more willing to walk back to his own cold quarters. Glorfindel smelled like alcohol and something sweet. His hold was warm and gentle and possessive, and Echtelion had nothing against it at the moment. So he laid his head more comfortably against his friend’s chest, listening to the beating of his heart and the rhythm of his breathing. Glorfindel, too, seemed to calm down as he showed no signs of leaving. Eventually Echtelion tried to move to lie next to him instead of being on top of him, for it was not very comfortable for either of them, but Glorfindel clung to his upper back so that he had to stay half still on top. And there he stayed for the small amount of time they took to fall asleep, for very soon after both started seeking for more comfortable position.

 

So it was that in the morning Echtelion woke up with Glorfindel’s arms around him, holding to him tightly. He could be quite sure that his friend was awake, for the hold was rather firm. He turned to look at Glorfindel, but wrinkled his nose then and turned away.

”Your breath smells,” he muttered quietly, hearing a little laughter, and then a face was pressed to his neck. ”Headache?”

Glorfindel nodded.

”You need water.”

Another nod.

”So stop cuddling me and go get some.”

A shake of head.

”Glorfindel.”

Another shake of head.

”You are smelly.”

”So are you,” Glorfindel growled lowly. Echtelion smiled widely.

”We are not going to take a bath together, 'Fin.”

”But—”

”Forget it,” Echtelion laughed, kicking his friend lightly. He felt a little kiss to his cheek, and then the bed got considerably lighter. Apparently Glorfindel would do what he told him to. Echtelion closed his eyes, burrowing his face into the pillow. It was such comfortable bed. Much less smelly than its owner. He managed to actually drift to rather pleasant and fuzzy thoughts before he was cruelly woken up by sudden impact to his face. He drew sharply air to his lungs, getting up, his brain hardly recognizing how he had been attacked. Water. Echtelion jumped up, staring his pants that were completely wet, and then to the bed, seeing the sheets suck the water.

”Glorfindel, what the–!” he exclaimed, looking to his grinning friend. ”Explain yourself!”

”I thought you said you needed water,” Glorfindel told, only to be answered with an angry objection.

”I said  _you_  needed water you–you  _loaf_!”

Glorfindel only started laughing at this ”grievous” insult.

”My pants are completely wet, Glorfindel! This is not funny,” Echtelion still insisted, partly still in shock from the sudden huge amount of cold water splashed on him.

”And what are you going to do about it?” Glorfindel asked, and at that point Echtelion realised that his friend’s smirking was rather mischievous. A rather too mischievous.

”You  _olca_   _cornë_!” Echtelion shouted, shaking his head.

Glorfindel only laughed more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never learnt Quenya word order or anything how things are supposed to go, so feel free to correct my spelling or word uses or anything. I did try to do some research on it, but not sure how successful I was.
> 
> Amaurëa = dawn   
> Anar calëa langë laurë, írë félalwë valin = The sun shines extremely bright when we are feeling happy.  
> Olca cornë = wicked loaf


	2. Amaurëa olca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dark side.

_…ananta árë nás raica._

It was a special night. Everyone around Echtelion was silent, and he too was trapped in that beautiful atmosphere, waiting for the sun to rise above the mountains and shine its light on Gondolin. When the first rays of light would be seen, they all would join in songs, old beautiful songs, and then they’d have a feast, for it was time for  _Tarnin Austa_. He yearned to begin the song already, to cut the silence and let his voice be heard. He could feel Glorfindel nearby, looking so adoringly to the stars, waiting the same moment as he did. Glorfindel’s hair was open, only slightly braided to honour the feast. Slowly the sun rose, revealing the lands of Gondolin, and Echtelion was ready to begin the song. It would start the festival filled with respect and happiness. His mind was already seeking for the first words, yet his lips would not repeat those words. For instead of happiness his eyes saw only red, red and black and dread spreading across the lands, he saw spears and swords and flame, he saw from the corner of his eye his golden friend get up instantly, a fresh scent sneaked past the other smells, someone screamed and others joined it, whips, bows, fire, surrounding them from everywhere, why did no one see, how did they know, where did they come from, up, up on shaking legs, they were surrounded, there was no escape, there was just the howls and screeches and clanging of weapons, quickly the festive robes away, discarded, armour hastily put on, his sword was long and bright and pale and it gleamed with fear and determination, run to the King, run and meet them all, Rog was pale and strong and fearless, Glorfindel’s hair still open, yet his golden mantle was on, his armour, he looked perfectly ready for battle, Turgon, their King shouted something, reserve, yes, Echtelion was keep his soldiers ready to attend to emergencies, of course, Turgon’s own house would defend the square, yes, where would Glorfindel go? Archers were to go, House of the Swallow and House of the Arch, ready, fill them with arrows, yes, that was good, kill them before they reach us, for there are too many, Rog was commanded to North Gate with Galdor, good, they would keep it safe, he looked to Rog and Rog looked to him and they both thought the same, stay safe, stay alive, we will push through this, it would be better to escape but where to escape when there was no escape? Deep breath, concentrate, go. Armoured men, good, show no fear, we will prevail, they will die, protect your families and kin, seconds go by and there were screams, someone shouted that the forces of Angband cannot climb the walls, will they stay away, oh please stay away, no, heart of steel, will of steel, he began to sing, his tone first cracking and then more solid, no fear, they would survive or die. Calm. Echtelion looked around, his spiked helmet feeling heavy, grasping his sword and shield less tightly than before, listening to the screams and shouts and terrible shrieks that filled the air. The enemies were moving to the northern gate, the flames and the raw strength were heading there, and Echtelion was filled with worry for Rog. For weren’t his forces there? Would the balrogs move there? Standing idly made Echtelion uneasy, and he continued to sing, keeping ever watchful eye on where he had been commanded. The battle continued around them, and they gave what aid they could without leaving the position that they had been given.  

Yet eventually the battle reached Echtelion and his House as well, for darts of fire and flaming arrows started raining on them, and the trees and grass and flowers burned. With an odd tug in his heart Echtelion watched the golden flowers burn, and his worry for Glorfindel only grew. The flowers were engulfed in flames and turned black, but he had no time to think more of it, as he lead his House finally to battle, for the cries of the orcs were too close and finally they were called upon to battle. How he hated the fact that he had had to stand while others fought for their lives. Yet now he rose his shield and his sword-arm, and his battle cry was terrifying. The orcs would long fear the name ‘Echtelion’, whether it was shouted or whispered, for he and his House slayed many of them and pushed the forces back to the gate from where they had spilled in from. The House of the Wing stood alongside them, of course, but over all that clinging of swords and shields and small cries, Echtelion’s shouts were heard the clearest, and they brought terror to their enemies. It seemed for the tiniest while like victory could be achieved, for the enemy forces were starting to be pushed back, and yet Morgoth, the cursed one, sent more troops to meet them. For suddenly the air grew almost scorching hot, and a terrible beast appeared. First Echtelion did not notice it, but suddenly they were pushed back again, and then he realised: a fire-drake, mighty and terrible, and balrogs started spilling in again. He saw his men fall down, crushed by the enormous foes, he saw them being thrown against the walls, and in fury he fought his way away from the orcs and to the balrogs. For they could not be invincible, they could not, and with the help of archers from the other Houses he attacked the leg of the first balrog he saw, he attacked any soft spots he could find, and valiantly did he slay it. The fire in its eyes vanished and it moved not. Echtelion’s sword arm shivered, for the skin of the balrog was tough and not easily cut, and he could not bear to think how tired his arm would be in the following battles. Once more he clashed his blade against a balrog, and once more he cut it to the ground, and nearby he saw Tuor, the Lord of the House of the Wing, battle another one. Tuor had always been valiant and brave and strong, and he seemed so now especially. He made it look like it was easy to just spill the blood of the balrog everywhere, to mangle its limbs and jump to next one. Echtelion’s both arms hurt, yet once more he turned to find another balrog. Yet this time it seemed that the balrog had found him first, and he barely dodged its burning whip, hearing its sizzle go past him just and just. Its heat was incredible. No fear. His arms shivered, he steadied them, and blocked the next whip-slash with his shield. That was a mistake. First, it seemed that the whip was deflected, but then it coiled like no whip should coil, and it hit his shield arm and wrapped around it. Echtelion screamed in pain, letting go of his shield, and after moments of excruciating pain tried to cut the whip with his sword. Yet suddenly he was yanked forward, and he flew in the air for a second, and he could see the stars up in the sky and the balrog sneering and the orcs screaming as they were slain, the elves eyes widening as they saw him fly and yet actually he could not see any of this, it was all his imagination, for his flight was short and his landing painful. Quicker than he thought was possible, he managed to scramble up, his heart beating wildly in his chest, and attempted to cut the whip again, this time succeeding in it only because Tuor leaped to his side. Together they managed to cut the whip and force it off his hand, and it was barely that Echtelion managed to stand afterwards. His arm was pulsing with pain and uselessness. Though his throat was dry and parched, Echtelion still let out almost inhumane cry, or perhaps more like a roar, and with Tuor’s help he slayed the balrog. But no matter how much they tried to push against the forces, no matter how many balrogs they slew, they seemed to be replaced by new ones over and over again. They had to retreat, and Echtelion could barely stumble forward. Fortunately Tuor was there once again, his tired face full of determination, full of strength, and he gave Echtelion his support, and together they retreated with their remaining forces. Echtelion did not pick up his shield, for his arm caused too much pain to even move it. Tuor was shouting for retreat, all back to Square of the King, and Echtelion returned that shout. Everyone to the Square of the King. Would Glorfindel be there too? He better be alive still.

Everyone was in the Square of the King. Everyone but Glorfindel. No matter where Echtelion looked, Glorfindel was not there. This would be their last stand, if they could not flee the city somehow. They had to flee. Yet Echtelion did not feel like he would flee. Not before he’d find Glorfindel, dead or alive. His hands were shaking, and he knew he could not go after Glorfindel. He would have to look after these people. Those who still were alive. Echtelion limped to help put up barricades, but those soon were destroyed as the orc forces pressed on. Seeing that the barricades seemed to be useless at this point, Echtelion concentrated on defending and keeping the orcs out of the square. Yet with the orcs came an enormous balrog, looking far more dangerous and deathly than the other ones they had battled. Its scream numbed Echtelion, and it seemed to be searching for the best target, as if it knew, as if it was intelligent and not sucha mindless beast of Morgoth. Now Echtelion headed for Tuor, for he saw that the horrible beast was going for him, and he knew that the other was tired and weary like him, and he knew the people needed Tuor, as he had been for long admired and loved by everyone. At that moment he saw Tuor fall, almost crushed by the balrog, and Echtelion forced his legs move a bit quicker to defend Tuor with his sword, baring the balrog’s next hit with his both arms. He heard a series of sickening  _crunches_  as pain bolted through his arms. Echtelion drew sharply air to his lungs, withstanding the pain, and pressed his helmet better to his head as soon as the balrog withdrew its hand. The helmet was his only defense anymore. His both arms were too tired,  _too broken_  to be of any use anymore. Slowly he retreated, evading the crackling whip that the balrog had. Orcs were flooding from everywhere, Tuor’s body laid where it was, but his chest seemed to be rising still. He was alive. That was good. Echtelion held to his sword desperately, but soon it was cleverly wrung out of his hands by the balrog. His heart beat so loudly, so vividly. It was not the first time he had stared death in the eye and tried to defy it, yet this time it seemed to be certain to grasp him. But he would not fall alone. He forced his enemy to have its back to the fountain, and with fury and desperation did he then run and force his helmet to its chest, uncaring of how its flaming hands grasped at him, how they burnt his body and he cried in agony, but he kept his helmet with its sharp, spiked part deep in the chest of the balrog, and they both fell to the fountain.

The water was almost cold. It was refreshing and yet so hurtful on the numerous wounds he had. He could hear the balrog cry out as its fires slowly quenched and its blood coloured the fountain red. Yet its hold of him did not loosen at all, and with sudden clarity Echtelion realised that he would not be getting out of this fountain. The rescue was so close, just get a bit more up. The fountain wasn’t that deep. Yet the grip of the dead balrog did not let him go. Desperately did Echtelion then fight against his fate, yet his arms were weak and his legs unable to push him away from his enemy. Tears of panic swelled in his eyes, and then he more desperately fought against the grip. He could not stay under the water for much longer, for he had little air left in his lungs. His mind was screeching for Glorfindel, for Tuor, for Rog, for anyone to come and pull him out from the fountain. Why could the stars not guide Glorfindel to him now? Or were the waters guiding him to Glorfindel? The more he fought, the more weak he felt, and the more he tried to stay conscious, the more fuzzy his mind became. The water became darker in his eyes, it filled his lungs and he felt nothing anymore. Whether he was returning to Glorfindel or taken away, he was not sure. In the end, he could not decide on that.

Glorfindel arrived to the Square of the King late. He had been stuck in the Great Market for a very long time, and lost most of his men there to a dragon. It was only by a chance that he had survived, for Salgant’s House had come to the rescue. They told him that Salgant had risen against Tuor with Maeglin, that there had been traitors within Gondolin. This had angered Glorfindel, yet more strong was his worry for Echtelion. His House had been put to be as a reserve, yet had they been engaged in battle already? Had there been more treachery, had they hit against him? At least his men were there, on the Square of the King. Yet they looked anything but encouraged, they looked tired and weary and…broken.

” _GREAT IS THE FALL OF GONDOLIN_ ,” someone shouted, and that shout sounded strange in Glorfindel’s ears, for once he had recognized that voice, but now it was hollow and regretting.

Some had gathered around the fountain, where a great balrog lied, yet they seemed to try to reach for something while having to fight against the orcs. What was in the fountain? Glorfindel could not fathom why the elves would wish to reach for a balrog. He fought his way towards the fountain, yet he couldn’t reach it, as a fire-drake found its way to the area and started wrecking havoc. Knowing it would do great harm if not fought and disposed of, Glorfindel gathered some of his men to go against it. If one enemy was drowned already in the fountain, spoiling its pure water that Echtelion had cherished, why not another? Glorfindel shouted for help, and together they tackled the dragon. He was weary and already partly scorched from his first fight with a drake, but he had to still ensure the survival of so many others. They would push through this. They would survive, in one way or another. They had to flee. Arrows flew to the dragon, and Glorfindel watched it slither its way towards him. He had to dodge, for it breathed fire towards him, burning orcs and elves on its way. But the second time he managed to force his sword on its neck, seeing many of his companions do the same, and with great show of strength they threw it to the fountain.

” _GREAT IS THE VICTORY OF THE NOLDOLI!_ ” the same voice shouted, but to Glorfindel it sounded wrong and distorted. For there in the fountain he saw a broken, bloody body, embraced by two strong hands of a balrog, he saw the dark hair hiding partly the handsome face, he saw death and desperation on those fair features. And then the fountain started to bubble and boil as the dragon’s ill blood and fire mixed with it, and Glorfindel had to draw back, but it was only just and just that he managed to do so, only just and just that he even held to his sword. Echtelion. In the fountain. With a balrog. Dead. What is  _great_  in this victory? This was not even a victory yet. It never would be. Not for him. Burning steam hit his face, and he growled, waking up, and he was dragged by someone else to follow the other retreating elves. Not up to the Tower of the King, where he saw Turgon, his King, stand strong and despairing, his crown gone somewhere, no, he was dragged somewhere else. Slowly Glorfindel regained his composure, forcing his legs move on their own, forcing himself to look around. They were following Tuor, Tuor and Idril. His House was following, and they were keeping the rear. Once more he mustered his attention to bark commands to his men, to encourage them. Yet he could see their enemies following tight on their trail, he could see some of his men fall to them. How desperate it all seemed, yet Glorfindel kept on going, forcing his legs move away, into the tunnel, its air burning him and the others, and back into the open. Out of Gondolin. He could not look back. He could only see Echtelion’s body in the fountain, the boiling water, had he still been alive? Did he burn him to death by his actions? No, he could have not been. Glorfindel looked up to the stars, yet no guidance did they give him. Still he followed Tuor, across the plains to a narrow pass. It seemed dangerous to him, to go such path, and so it proved to be: for above them orcs started hurling rocks, and then a crackling of a whip. With terror Glorfindel turned around, seeing the balrog that had followed them. The stars shone quietly above it, the terrified screams of the elves filling the air. Everyone was battle-weary, he was battle-weary, his body aching from hurt and pain, his mind screaming for Echtelion, and the stars shone bright above the balrog, and the rocks tumbled down hitting and smashing and breaking everything on their way, and Glorfindel ordered at the elves to go forward, for they would die if they would not, they would perish all, and he stayed still himself, yet not only for selfless reasons.

” _Let the stars guide you home.”_

With a ferocious growl he gripped his sword, and he attacked the massive balrog. Though his arms were hurting, he managed to stab the beast in its belly, yet at the same he lost his sword. For the sword was now stuck on the belly, and he could not pull it back.

Above the balrog the last stars of the night shone, ready to disappear to the morning. Glorfindel’s eyes were fuzzy with tears, his mind wanted an end, and yet there was to be none such. He pushed the sword deeper, pushing his foe off the cliff. Yet even as he did so, there was a sharp tug at his scalp, and for a brief moment he was sure his hair would all be ripped off, they would leave him with blood and no hair, yet then he felt his balance waver, and off he went, falling with the balrog for eternity, and he smiled until his body was crushed and burnt with his foe.

He did not fear death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation (still, not a master of quenya):
> 
> Amaurëa olca = wicked dawn (emphasising the wicked)  
> …ananta árë nás raica = …and yet its light is crooked.  
> So the whole sentence was Anar calëa langë laurë, írë félalwë valin ananta árë nás raica = The sun shines extremely bright when we are feeling happy and yet its light is crooked.


End file.
